


Tomatoes do not belong in the refrigerator

by laliquey



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Cooking, Crush at First Sight, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laliquey/pseuds/laliquey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark's an in-demand chef and a bit of an abrasive ass. With Dustin as his underling, he's hired to cater a birthday party for what he assumes is yet another rich uptown jerk. </p><p>Eduardo proves himself otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomatoes do not belong in the refrigerator

**Author's Note:**

> From the tsn_kinkmeme prompt [here](http://tsn-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/12119.html?thread=22006615). Thanks to the OP for providing such a fun idea! :)

Funny how being called a prick by Gordon Ramsay can catapult one into semi-stardom.

The episode Mark won Chopped was legend - his trash-talk directed at the guest judges and other contestants was both blistering and accurate, and instead of expressing gratitude or relief for his victory, he criticized the very format of the show. “If you want to have a show about cooking, have a show about cooking,” he said. “This show is a three-pronged endurance stunt where food is incidental.”

“You just won ten thousand dollars,” Ted Allen gently reminded.

“I know, but marrow bones and chocolate graham crackers? Come on.”

That's when Ramsay called him a prick, and Mark shot back with _I can out-cook you any day of the week, old man._

The win not only gave him more clients than he knew what to do with, it gave him a short-lived reality show. It only lasted seven episodes because contestants - his would-be apprentii - kept quitting before Mark could ax them.

His impatience and sass always gave way to perfect food that was thought out to almost a molecular level, but the contestants could never quite keep up with his skill or demands. The premise was that Mark cooked two nights a week for Family X, who were actors displaying habits culled from real-life clients (a wife who fancied herself an amateur chef and hovered, unwanted, in the kitchen, and a picky child who only ate pickles and white bread). A revolving door of hapless apprentices crashed and burned alongside him, and at the end of each episode, Mark sucked Red Bull through a Red Vine straw and dissected what the potential assistant had done wrong. Then came Dustin. He cheerfully put up with Mark's near-gratuitous abuse, and after two episodes together, Mark decided to keep him.

He explained it on the Today show the morning after the final episode aired. He was pleased with the wrap-up, though Dustin had famously tackled him to the floor in a hug he famously did not want.

“You seemed to hate every minute of your own show,” Matt Lauer said. “What inspired you to do it in the first place?”

“I thought it would raise the bar for people who thought they were good enough to apprentice for me.”

“Did it?”

“Yes. But it came with such a slew of peripheral... _excrement_ shall we say, I regretted doing it. I had a contract, though, so I was stuck.”

“But you're happy Dustin Moskovitz won, right?”

“Usually.”

“What do you think of the nickname fans gave him toward the end of the competition? Dustin Masochist?”

“He can quit anytime he wants.”

He hadn't known anyone was calling Dustin that and texted an apology the moment he got off the set. Dustin waved it off and they'd been a solid team ever since, doing events and in-home work for moneyed assholes. Saturday was another such gig: an early afternoon birthday fête for some rich prick on the upper west side.

Mark had a menu and preemptive lack of patience for this job.

Dustin had the ingredients list and address. 

* * *

They met at Mark's at seven in the morning to prep. 

“I'm so not in the mood for this,” Mark said with a scowl. They'd done a chic and complicated event the night before and hadn't slept much.

“Did you get the gelato done?”

“At three AM, yes,” Mark said. “The shortbread, too.”

“Nice. Thank God we're off tonight,” said Dustin. They'd each been given a bottle of Dom as extra thanks the night prior, and he planned to pop his with his girlfriend. He didn't say so, though. Despite Mark's workaholic tendencies and general demeanor, Dustin got the feeling he really didn't like being alone.

They settled into work. Mark glued fish together with transglutaminase while Dustin roasted Brazil nuts and rubbed off the papery brown skins with a tea towel. Mark glanced over. “You'll have to whittle off the stubborn spots with your smallest paring knife,” he said, and Dustin did until his fingers stiffened and cramped.

They continued without speaking until disaster hit. Mark was so tired a mis-measurement of tapioca flour made his pão de queijo dough thick and and weird; it climbed the mixer and threw itself on the floor when he wasn't looking, which he didn't find nearly as hilarious as Dustin did. “I fucking hate this menu,” he said, scraping the sticky wad off the floor. “It has no continuity and too many things are white.” 

“Couldn't you talk them into something else?”

“The girl who arranged it was so annoying I gave up. She was all Eduardo _this_ and Eduardo _that,_ Eduardo _has_ to have pão de queijo or he'll die...” He gritted his teeth and started over, and the do-over cheated him out of the mid-morning nap he planned to take.

The lack of nap made him extra testy the moment they arrived at the ridiculously nice apartment – it was so nice Mark suspected the mythical Eduardo probably didn't work hard enough to deserve it. He also suspected the commercial-grade gas range was never used, and he wasn't surprised to find five anemic tomatoes in the fridge alongside flaccid salad greens and sugar-free kefir. Mark knew without looking that the cupboards probably held Trader Joe's flaxseed and Clif bars. It was the pantry of an asshole who didn't know anything about food and did whatever GQ told him to do.

Dustin dutifully brought in the crate of ingredients, and it wasn't on the Corian for two seconds when Mark was on his ass. “Excuse me. What the hell is this?” he asked, tipping the bottle of Kishibori soy sauce from side to side. He fermented his own shōyu, thank you very much. This pasteurized commercial salt bomb wouldn't do, and Dustin fucking knew that.

“I didn't have time to get yours. I couldn't find an empty bottle to put it in, and...” The excuses meant nothing to Mark. They never did. “I'm sorry.”

“Go get it.”

“There isn't time.”

“Make time.”

“Mark,” Dustin pleaded. “Kishibori's the best!”

“Second best. Would you want someone taking shortcuts on your birthday?”

“There's so much going on with this menu no one will ever notice.”

“I will,” Mark said, and cut Dustin off every time he started to speak until they were both shouting, and he got the last word. He always did. “You're better than this, Dustin, and you're going to either go back and get it or you're going to quit.”

“Mark...”

“I don't fucking care what you decide. It's up to you.” 

“Okay,” Dustin said, defeated, and the blood and heat in Mark's face plummeted downward when Eduardo appeared. He was tall and dark, and wore a shy smile for interrupting.

“There's just a wall between you & the dining room,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Mark's retort was clean and immediate. “If you knew anyone capable of turning out decent food, I wouldn't be here. You know that, right?”

“I do, actually,” Eduardo said. 

Dustin sheepishly excused himself and promised to hurry, which left Mark and Eduardo alone in a tense little standoff. Mark said the first thing that came to mind – it wasn't his best riposte, but it was better than nothing.

“Tomatoes do not belong in the refrigerator.” 

“Oh.” Eduardo walked over to open the fridge, then took the red quintet out in one big hand and set them on the counter. “Better?”

Mark said nothing and continued stripping zest off limes.

“I loved your show,” Eduardo said. “How much of it was an act?”

Mark ignored him and pretended the most urgent thing on earth was to cut up peppers so he could push Eduardo out of the way to get to them. “Sorry,” Mark said, though he wasn't, really. “You're kind of in my way.”

“You're kind of in my house, so...” Eduardo's smile was so adorable Mark took his eyes off the cutting board. “Thank you for coming today. I wasn't sure how selective you were about taking jobs, so I had my assistant arrange it 'cause I'd have been devastated if you'd said no.”

Mark almost sliced one of his fingers off. 

“I had the biggest crush on you.”

Mark set the knife down for his own safety. “You need to go do something else,” he said, once he found his voice. “I have a ton of shit to do.”

Eduardo slunk away and Mark tried not to think about this alleged crush being framed as past tense. He threw himself into work – partly because he had to, but also so he wouldn't start wondering whether his bristly exterior sometimes hid a loneliness even he didn't know the extent of.

Dustin was back in half an hour. “I'm so sorry,” he said, carrying shōyu in a WFMU coffee mug covered with plastic wrap. “It's the best I could do.”

“It's okay, we're almost caught up. I need you to go get something else, though.”

“Shit. What'd I forget now?”

“Nothing,” Mark said, and started going through Eduardo's cupboards. There had to be cachaça somewhere...he finally found it on a low shelf and said, “I need you to get me strawberries, a jalapeno, and a sheet of gold leaf.”

“We've got strawberries.” Tiny wild mountain strawberries from Vermont; not second best, but _the best._

“I need a regular strawberry. Like something you'd find in a bordello, big and fakey.”

“What for?”

“I'm making him something,” Mark said, and Dustin stared at him till he blushed.

“You wanna taste his umami, don't you.”

“Shut up, Dustin.”

“Oh my God, _you do!”_

“I said shut up.”

Mark toasted manioc flour in a pan and tried not to think about how true the umami comment was.

Dustin got back just in time to start plating round one – Eduardo's assistant had suggested sushi to start, but Mark refused. Mostly because he hated making sushi, but in the spirit of compromise he made a perfect 3x3 checkerboard of Japanese amberjack tuna and snow-white albacore with a splash of shōyu and ginger-wasabi pearls on the side.

Next was the soup. The nuts Dustin worked on all morning went into a Cuisinart with hot stock, a softened onion, heavy cream, and mace, then finished with a few drops of unsweetened pomegranate juice. “Taste this,” Mark said. 

It had a smooth, buttery squeak to it. “Holy shit. We should make a batch of this for just us,” Dustin said, but Mark wasn't listening; he was swirling olive oil and crushed garlic in a pan.

Third was tiny soft shell crabs. They'd been soaked in buttermilk, dusted in corn flour, fried and placed back-to-back in a mirror image on a bed of bright colors – roasted red pepper ribbons, scallions, hearts of palm and mango, with farofa on top and the eleventh-hour pão de queijo on the side. This was always the part of the job Mark liked best – the hard work was mostly over and he could hear the moans of ecstasy from the other side of the wall.

“Will you do dessert without me?” he asked. It just needed assembly - white chocolate gelato with lime-soaked strawberries and pistachio shortbread. Dustin was flattered to be trusted with it and got to work while Mark cooked down cachaça, sugar, lime rind, and seeded jalapeno circles in a little copper pan. When it was thick and syrupy, he fished the pepper slices out, hollowed a core out of one of the big strawberries, and dripped the liquid inside till it was full.

A girl – maybe the assistant – appeared. “Do you guys have candles?”

“I don't know,” Mark barked. “Is the birthday boy five?” He went back to his project - the leaves on top of the strawberry got a precise little trim, and he pressed three thin strips of gold leaf in a spiral around the sides. 

It was fucking _gorgeous._

Dustin nodded his approval but had to ask, because Mark never did anything extra like this. “Where'd that come from? I mean...why?”

“He said he had a crush on me,” Mark said, reddening. “During the show, and I've sorta got one on him right now, so...yeah.”

“Huh. Well, good luck.” 

“Thanks.” Mark landed a vicious rag-snap on Dustin's thigh, and once the profanity died down they started their usual pas de deux of cleanup, sailing around each other but never in the way. This was one of many reasons Mark knew Dustin was a good match for him, and maybe someday, when he was wasted and had his guard down, he'd tell him. 

He wished Eduardo would come back. 

After the last guests left, he did. “That was unbelievable. Thank you so much,” he said, shaking Dustin's hand but wary of Mark. “Hey, I have something for you.” He plucked a can of Red Bull from his fridge and produced a pack of Red Vines from a drawer, then cut both tips off a vine so Mark had a straw.

“I don't actually drink it like this in real life.”

“It's my birthday. Indulge me.”

“I kind of already did,” Mark said, and sucked on the straw. “I hope you liked everything.”

“I loved it. Everyone did.”

“Oh, hey,” he said casually, framing it like an afterthought. “I made this for you.” 

Eduardo held the strawberry carefully between his thumb and forefinger like a big fat jewel, and Mark smiled, warm inside. “There's a surprise in the middle.”

“I can't eat this.”

“You have to.”

“Share it with me.”

“No. It's your birthday.”

“All the more reason to get my way.”

Mark shook his head no, and a moment later got the reaction he'd hoped for. “Oh God,” Eduardo said with a full mouth. “Oh, fuck me, you're good.”

Mark blushed and handed him the little pan of extra syrup with a spoon, and Eduardo slurped it up. “What's in this?”

“Guess.”

“Cachaça?” he asked, and Mark smiled in confirmation. “But it's different. And hot. How'd you do that?”

“Magic,” Mark said modestly, and then less modestly added, “If I catered your lunch I can't imagine what you're doing for dinner.”

“I can't tell you 'cause you'll think it's ridiculous. Here.” He held the spoon up to Mark's mouth. “Last taste's for you.”

Mark intentionally sucked on it a moment too long. “Seriously. I want to know what you're eating tonight.”

“I'm flying to the west coast in three hours.”

“Chez Panisse, I bet. Or French Laundry?”

“In N' Out Burger.”

“That...” Mark paused a second. “Is _brilliant.”_

Eduardo's face lit up. “Really? You really think so?”

“I'd rather have a Neapolitan shake than just about anything.”

“I didn't know they made those.”

“You don't know about the secret menu?” Mark narrowed his eyes, because it was the most tragic and ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. “You've never had a Double Double Animal Style?”

Eduardo shook his head. “I have no idea what that means and it sounds dirty.”

“It isn't. It's best thing you can put in your mouth.”

“That sounds dirty, too.”

“Mark knows everything about the secret menu,” Dustin said. “You should take him with you.”

Eduardo slowly looked him over. “Maybe I should.”

Mark swallowed hard. “Yeah. Maybe you should.” 

The tension was thick as tapioca dough. “I'll book your plane ticket the second you say yes.”

“Can you have me back by Monday morning?”

“Yeah.”

Mark looked to Dustin. “You can do the ordering and start prep for next week, right?”

“You'd let me?”

“Of course I would. You're a pro.” Dustin basked in the compliment and Mark told Eduardo, as if he didn't know: “It looks like I'm free.”

“Good. I'll get online and book you right now.”

“Kay.” The minute Eduardo was out of the room, Mark crushed Dustin in a hug. “Thank you,” he said, squeezing him hard. “You have no idea, you just don't.”

“Be careful, okay?”

“Don't worry.” Mark pulled back and surveyed the kitchen. “Sorry to leave you with the mess.”

“Yeah right,” Dustin said, and started stacking plates. He heard Eduardo and Mark discuss more details of this sudden plan on other side of the wall, and once Mark raced home to pack an overnight bag, the apartment was quiet except for the soft clink of dishes.

Dustin took a break to find Eduardo's bedroom, which was probably unprofessional but it felt necessary. Eduardo was chewing on a thumbnail, weighing what to put in the suitcase splayed out on his bed.

“Hey, um, can I talk to you for a minute?” Dustin asked. 

“Sure.”

“Since you're taking Mark away, I have to ask. Are you a serial killer?”

Eduardo laughed. “No.”

“Good.” His bigger question came next. “Are you...a good guy?”

Eduardo's expression warmed. “Yeah.”

“'Cause Mark deserves that. He's a real dick sometimes, but he's brilliant.”

Eduardo nodded. “He seems worth the trouble.”

“He is,” Dustin said. “Okay, I'm gonna go finish cleaning up. I hope you have a nice rest of your birthday.”

“Thanks.”

He turned to leave but stopped. “One more thing - we had a big job last night and he's really tired. Like...he may be unbearable later.”

Eduardo laughed. “I'll try to get him to sleep on the plane.”

“You'll be glad you did. Okay! I'm leaving for real this time.”

“Hey Dustin?”

“Yeah?”

“I hope we'll see more of each other.”

Dustin smiled. “Me too.” He went back to work and Eduardo went back to packing.

Both were sure that they would.


End file.
